It was only a flirtation. Why not give the lady what she came for?
Wade placed his wooden mallet on the ground and dusted his hands off on his trousers. This opportunity was too good to pass up. “Allow me to make a suggestion.”
He was the Duke of Wadebridge, known for his infamous reputation. To behave spotlessly would only single her out further.
Cassandra Staunton offered herself up to his open hands. “By all means, Your Grace.”
***
She felt him settle behind her. Firmly muscled thighs pressed against her skirts. His Grace’s presence was warm, almost suffocating. Sweat bloomed beneath her corset as large hands skimmed the muslin barrier that separated her body from his.
Cassandra had never been touched by a man—let alone a stranger—yet it took all her strength not to lean back against his chest. To rest her head on his lapel and breathe in the scent of his shaving lotion.
She focused on the wooden mallet in her hand, instead.
Wadebridge cleared his throat. “May I?”
She nodded, allowing him to adjust her grip on the handle. His gloved hands moved with hers, positioning the mallet just between her thighs. The act was scandalous, yet she never once felt as if the duke was having his way with her. To any observer, he was merely helping with her swing.
Once he was satisfied with her stance, Wadebridge encircled his arms around her hips. He stooped behind her, lightly but insistently. He did not press her or cage her, though no woman alive could ignore the presence of his body fitted to hers.
He robbed her of her breath.
And heknewit.
The duke whispered against her cheek, “Alright, Miss Staunton?”
She nodded, for words wouldn’t come. Breath would not come. Sanity had fled long ago, leaving only her desperate heart thrumming in her breast.
His Grace lifted the front of her skirt. He hitched her hems well above the level of the grass, exposing her lace-edged petticoat. The thin white linen ruffled in the breeze. She felt warm summer air fan her legs, which were spread against Wadebridge’s thighs.
“Take your time,” he said. “Note your target. Line up your shot. Whenever you’re ready, let the mallet fall.”
Cassandra swallowed. She did exactly as he instructed, for she trusted him. For all his wicked ways, he would not steer her wrong.
She waved her mallet, which swished between her knees. Without layers of skirts in the way, she could direct her swing. The head of the mallet fell, clicking against the yellow ball at her feet.
It rolled across the lawn, nudging Octavia’s ball further from the arch.
“Oh!”Cassandra cheered, almost forgetting there was a man attached to her. She nearly smacked Wadebridge in the chin as she leaped for joy. “Oh—sorry!”
His Grace was a good sport. He dodged her flailing. “Nicely done, Miss Staunton.”
The rest of their group clapped and shouted encouragements, yet her elder sister frowned. Poor Octavia was not fairing well at croquet, and Cassandra had just pushed her sister’s ball into a precarious position.
“You look flushed,” said Octavia, carefully. “Is the sun too much for you? Perhaps we ought to return to the tent…”
The eldest Staunton attempted to separate Cassandra from the duke, who was not to be trusted.
“You just want to stop,” she teased, “because you are not good at croquet.”
Cassandra wanted to play, flirt, and enjoy the afternoon like any other woman. Her health was good today, and she would not have wasted this moment for anything in the world.
Together, she and Wadebridge advanced through the course, taking turns. He was very good at the game. She felt guilty for holding him back, though he refused to abandon her.
His Grace’s chest rumbled against her spine as he vowed, “I could follow you all day, holding your skirts up.”
She felt his heart quicken and knew he spoke the truth.
